You ever seen someone who can’t sleep?
Who tosses and turns and tosses.
Their body like an emaciated eight year old.
See how they wriggle.
One long thick vein following the twig-like arm to a huge hand.
A hand made for cooking
The blanket is thick with a lion on front.
See hip bones.
Bones like they were carved from brittle cobwebs.
Inside, tortured organs twist his body
from one side to the other.
Move the sick bucket, again, go on,
to one side from the other.
Chasing vomited pills
and grey bile, go on,
from this grief to another.
The disheveled bed a prison when he asks,
“When will the nurse get here?”
and you answer,
“They just left.”
Beg, like you always do, the invisible force of something,
“Let him stop tossing,
Bring this kind, sleepless man sleep.”